


Through the Mist

by itsharbour



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Multi, Pre-Season/Series 04, not including the new characters, post 3b
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1817758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsharbour/pseuds/itsharbour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Nogitsune is gone. Allison is dead. Stiles seems to be getting worse by the day and Lydia has a bad feeling that just won't go away. </p><p>On the day of Allison's funeral, the Nemeton decides to make a reappearance in their lives, drawing a gang of supernatural bad guys who are nothing like the pack has ever seen before. A stranger is drawn to the power in hopes to help Scott and the pack to beat this new enemy. </p><p>Questions must be answered: who is this stranger? Why has the Nemeton awoken? And worst of all: can they save Stiles?</p><p>*ON HIATUS*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Stranger Arrives

The night was darker than most and the light of the amber road lights gleamed off of the still wet asphalt. Trees on either side of the road had become nothing more than a sea of darkness that swayed in the soft breeze that came from the east, passing through the snowy mountains. Fog was beginning to move in from the woods towards the small town, tentacles of air hugging the veins that weaved through the quiet houses. Winter had just started to set in, and the air was just chilly enough to condense if you breathed out the hot air from your lungs.  


The stranger came in the middle of the night. Riding a quiet motorcycle at a very illegal speed, the black-clad stranger was the only person on the road at that hour. The people of the small town knew better than to be out at night, but the stranger, who had never been to the town, had only heard of the innate dangers that could be brought to those that left their homes after the sun went down.  


Not many strangers came to the town and not many residents left. The town was as stagnant as it had been when its founders had built it to hide away in the forest. The folk lived a modest life, keeping to themselves as much as they could, but knowing everything that happened in their community. In some sense, it was a typical small town.  


Taking a sharp turn off of the highway, the stranger drove into the only motel in the town. The sign exuded a fluorescent message that said: “Vacancies Available!” in bright blue and red lights. After parking and locking the bike, the stranger entered the lobby of the motel, not removing their helmet, but simply walking up to the bored-looking receptionist.  


“One room.” The stranger said in a quiet, muffled voice.  


The receptionist looked at the stranger, taking in their appearance. “How long?” The receptionist asked, the key in his hand. The stranger drew a small wad of bills from the pocket of their black leather jacket and wordlessly gave it to the receptionist. “Indefinitely.” The receptionist gave the stranger a small smile and handed them the key. “Welcome to Beacon Hills.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So this is my first TW fic ever and I haven't written any fan fiction in two years. And I haven't written an actual narrative in about a year. I also joined AO3 yesterday, so I'm still working out the kinks and getting used to working on AO3 rather than on ff.net. Great start, right?
> 
> I beg you to be patient with me since I'm still getting used to this and know that I'm incredibly unreliable and have a tendency to delete things. 
> 
> With that in mind, I hope that you guys can comment or review or whatever you can to give me feedback would be super appreciated and rewarded with gifs of kittens and Dylan O'Brien.


	2. Inescapable and Unavoidable

There wasn’t much to be said at funerals. They were quiet and solemn, with the weight of death bearing upon the spectators like burden of Atlas. It was a weight that was inescapable and unavoidable, and would simply not get lighter.

Seeing her would no longer be perpetual and usual. There was no longer an option to call her or text. There would not be small laughs and fleeting glances that made the girl who she was. No. The light had gone out from her eyes and would no longer come back. Such a tragedy should not be felt by so many who are so young. Nevertheless, the spectators stood a respectful distance away from the coffin, allowing the father of the deceased girl to be the closest to her body.

The man did not cry. His eyes did not even water at the sight of his only daughter being lowered six feet under the cold, wet ground. Argent just sat stoically in his chair, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of pride and determination.

Sitting next to the father was a tall boy. In his mourning clothes, the boy looked paler than he normally would. Isaac’s dark hair hung on his forehead like the blinds of a window, almost covering his light eyes, but not quite. His expression was neutral, but his eyes betrayed the pain that he felt in his heart. He looked as if he would die of pain at any moment.

Behind the father and the boy, a red head and a dark haired boy. The red head’s eyes were almost the same shade as her hair, puffy and irritated, like she had been crying for days. Lydia’s fingernails, once meticulously kept, were broken and the once bright red polish was now dull and chipped. She was holding hands with the boy as if her life depended on it, but it was rather his life that did. Every once in a while, she would give his hand a squeeze, assuring him that she was still there and that he was still there. She would hold his hand tight in hers when he tried to count his fingers, assuring him that it was not a dream. Lydia wasn’t sure if she could consider it reality. It felt more like a nightmare.

There were dark circles around the Stiles’ eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in days. There were some signs of his slow recovery manifesting themselves. He was slightly less pale than he had been last week. He was able to walk longer distances by himself without feeling like he would die. But he still felt the weight of death’s grip on him like an anchor. He looked as if he could fall over at any moment, and he would if he lost his focus on Allison. The words “I’m sorry” kept repeating in his mind, each time striking a blow to his brain like an axe on a tree, only pausing to give way to “It should have been me”s before starting all over again.

Standing far away from the crowd and watching the funeral below from the hill, the Alpha of Beacon Hills’ unconventional pack stood, unable to go any closer to his first love. Scott feared that, if he inched any closer, he would let his pain take over and cause more damage than he could cope with. Once upon a time, Allison’s face could stop even the most excruciating transformations, now it was the cause. He wished that he could go back to that moment and run a bit faster, or have called the other pack members. He had gone over that night so many times in his mind, working out a thousand ways to change it. Just as long as Allison was alive, he would be happy.

Scott also wished that he could talk to someone about her, but his options had started to run frightenly low. He wanted to talk to Kira, but she hadn’t gotten to know Allison like the rest of the pack had. Kira had never had the chance to love Allison the way that they did. Under other circumstances, he would talk to Stiles, but Scott knew that his best friend was hanging on by a thread already. If he were to talk to Stiles about Allison, he was sure that the boy would have another panic attack.

He sighed. Stiles. Only Lydia knew how to make him calm down now. She had practically moved into the Stilinski household after the nogitsune had been vanquished. She didn’t want to be alone, and there wasn’t a night that went by that she didn’t get a call from the Sheriff, begging her to come over and help with Stiles. The nightmares had gotten to be too much for the Sheriff to control all by himself.

And Isaac.... Isaac had made the decision to move to France after the funeral. Chris had agreed to take him to the biggest pack in Paris, where Isaac would be living and training with some of the most experienced and civil werewolves in Europe. Isaac and Chris would be leaving as soon as the funeral was over and wouldn’t be back for God knows how long.

Below him, Allison’s coffin was being lowered into the ground as her friends and family threw earth onto the lid. Chis and Isaac sat motionless in their seats, not being able to process the coffin’s descent. Scott felt a gripping pain in the pit of his stomach as the coffin was lowered out of his sight. The pain was rising up to his head in waves of sorrow and grief, slow and constant, invading his lungs and stealing his breath. His heart contracted and his chest felt like it was caving in, seeping into the ground with Allison.

Scott felt a hand grip his shoulder. Derek gripped the younger boy’s shoulder and took a step next to him. He didn’t say anything, but rather just stood beside Scott. The Alpha’s senses told him that Peter was lurking nearby, but he chose to ignore the older werewolf’s presence and focus on the now dispersing crowd that stood not far from him.

“You’re okay, Scott.” Derek assured him, his voice low and even. “Just take a deep breath.”

Scott did. The pain didn’t go away. His head was still throbbing. He kept controlling his breathing, keeping the rhythm even and timed.

He watched as Stiles put his arm around Lydia, who was bearing some of his weight so that they could walk to her car. Stiles looked paler than he had been when he had been sitting down. Scott could see the sweat that was forming on his best friend’s forehead and hear his heartbeat racing faster than it had ever been.

“Something’s wrong.” He said, turning to Derek.

Derek furrowed his brows. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Stiles.” He said, turning away and starting down the hill. “Something’s wrong with Stiles.”

* * *

“Breathe, Stiles.” Lydia told him, her eyes wide with panic. Stiles did as she said, trying to focus on her voice. This wasn’t a panic attack and he knew it. Panic attacks felt like the air was being sucked from his lungs with a vacuum cleaner. It was like drowning on land.

I’m trying. He wanted to say, but the pain in his head was too much. It was like a crashing wave of God knows what was pummeling his brain to shreds. Lydia had helped him sit down with his back against one of the trees near Allison’s freshly dug grave. She was kneeling next to him, still holding his hand, and running her other hand through his hair to sooth him.

In other circumstances, he would have been thrilled that Lydia Martin, the girl of his dreams, was holding his hand and stroking his hair, but he was so preoccupied with the fact that his brain was trying to self-destruct that he had no time to appreciate his sudden luck. It was getting harder to keep his eyes focused on her, he tried to pick a point to focus on, but the pain was making his vision blur.

“Stay awake.” She begged him. “Come on, Stiles. Fight it.” Her voice sounded so far away, like he was underwater again and she was trying to wake him up. “Scott’s on his way, Stiles. Stay awake for Scott.” He was trying. Lydia would never be able to tell, but he was. He breathed deeper, trying to slow down his heartrate.

“What happened?” He heard Scott ask, concerned.

“I don’t know.” Lydia told him, and shook Stiles’ shoulder, trying to get him to open his eyes. “He was fine and then he couldn’t breathe--”

“My head.” Stiles said with as much energy as he could muster. “It’s my head.” He felt Scott grip his other hand and the tension in his head started to slowly dissipate. His eyes opened to see Scott taking his pain away. “Stop.” He snapped, taking his hand away.

Scott kneeled down beside him. “What did it feel like?”

“Like a wave.” He said, rubbing his head. “One second I was fine, then the next my head was going to explode.”

Scott turned to Lydia. “Did you feel anything?”

Lydia shot him a look as if to say what the hell is going on? but responded: “No.”

“I felt it too.” He told Stiles.

Stiles’ eyes widened as much as they could in his fatigue. “You don’t think...?”

Lydia looked to Stiles and then back to Scott, worry clouding her face. “What are you thinking?”

Scott swallowed, about to tell her when a voice interrupted from behind him. “The Nemeton.” Derek said, having caught up to the group lingering around Stiles’ seated form. “The only thing that has a connection with the both of them.”

“No.” Lydia said with finality. “You are not going near that thing. I forbid you.” She looked absolutely livid.

Ever since they had gone near that tree, their lives had been plagued with misfortune. First it was the effects of the ritual they had done to take their parent’s places, then the nogitsune came and killed her best friend and had practically killed Stiles. He would never say that he wasn’t okay, and, even when she asked him, he would always say that she shouldn’t worry. But she slept on the extra mattress on the floor of his room. She heard his screams at night and held his hand until he fell back asleep. She told him that it wasn’t his fault, because it wasn’t. Not that he ever listened.

Lydia could still feel the lingering warmth of the Nogitsune’s breath on her neck from when she was in the basement of Oak Creek. She hated that tree with every fiber of her being. That tree had taken everything from her and, if she had her way, she would never let anyone close to it ever again.

Scott looked at her with pleading eyes before coming to his resolution. “Take Stiles home. Get him to bed. Derek and I will figure out what’s going on at the tree.”

She was about to protest when Stiles gripped her hand tightly. “He’s right. I need you to take me home.” Lydia looked down at him. He was so pale and his eyes stood out like dark orbs from his face. It made her heart sink slightly. The boy who had given up so much to help so many was sitting there, begging her to help him get back home. There was once a time where she wouldn't have cared what happened to Scott or Stiles. But there wasn't much time now to dwell on the person she had been. It had been another life. Now, she looked at Stiles' eyes, with their familiar spark gone and moved down so he could put his arm around her. Stiles draped his arm around her shoulders and got up, letting Lydia bear some of his weight. Stiles looked at Scott for a moment. “Be careful.”

Scott nodded and took his friend’s hand, taking a bit more of his pain and ignoring his own. He rolled his sleeves up and turned to Derek. “We’re going to do this as quickly as possible. I just want to see if there’s anything down there.”

Derek shrugged. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Tell Peter to watch Lydia and Stiles.”

“I’m pretty sure he heard you.” He said, looking back to see the image of his uncle going towards Lydia and Stiles.

“Then let’s go.” Scott jogged to the edge of the forest before turning into wolf form and headed towards the Nemeton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that the first chapter didn't have much to do with the TW characters, but after this chapter it will start picking up. 
> 
> Please drop a comment!


	3. Blank Masks

The forest was silent. The only sound that Scott could hear was the sound of his and Derek’s feet as they ran through the trees towards the Nemeton. They hadn’t gone to the tree since the ritual done to save the guardians from the Darach. In retrospect, leaving the tree completely unobserved had not been a wise decision. They came to a halt once they were closer to the tree, silently walking towards the stump.

There was someone, or something, on the stump.

The figure on the Nemeton was clad in all black, their back facing Scott and Derek. The person, whoever they were, was spreading a powder along overtop of the Nemeton. Their gloved hand was gracefully and deliberately dousing the powder over the ridges of the tree, while their other hand held a jar of the stuff.  

Scott charged at the tree and yelled at the figure. It turned around.

The figure was wearing a blank mask, covering it’s features completely. There was not an inch of the figure that was not completely covered in black fabric.

If the past year had taught Scott anything, it was that people who did not show their faces were generally dangerous. The person was not armed, and didn’t seem lethal, but that had never stopped crazy magical creatures in the past. Scott ran at the Nemeton, baring his fangs at the figure, with the intent of scaring them off. The creature didn’t move, but, rather, stood still and watched him move forward, cocking it’s head to the side in curiosity. Scott took a step forward and hit an invisible wall, causing him to stumble backwards.

“Mountain ash.” Derek said, his eyes travelling to the masked creatures. It nodded at him and raised its hand to its mouth, resting a finger over its masked lips, gesturing that it was their secret. Derek looked to Scott, who was watching confusedly.

The figure took a step towards Derek, still standing atop the Nemeton, and gestured for him to move forward. He did. And the figure put down the jar on the stump by its foot. Its hand moved into its black jacket and drew out a small, unmarked paper bag. It showed Derek the bag and set it on top of the jar of black powder. His eyes met the creatures. Its eyes were an unnerving shade of steel. Their color and shape seemed familiar to Derek, focused and determined. They were asking him: 'do you understand me?'

Derek nodded at the figure, understanding that it was giving them something, despite not understanding the reasons why. The creature straightened up and took off one of their gloves, revealing a small, pale hand. The earth started shaking beneath them, and smoke began billowing out from under the figure, consuming it completely.

Then the ground settled, stopping completely, and the smoke dispersed in a gust of wind. The spot where the figure once stood was now empty. The only traces of the presence of the figure was the jar of powder and the paper bag that had not moved.

Scott looked at Derek for a moment, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Derek stepped forward towards the Nemeton, the circle of mountain ash now dispersed in the grass around the tree. He picked up the bag and opened it. In it was a small jar of herbs with a label that said “For Stiles.”

“What do you think this means?” Scott asked, picking up the jar of powder and opening it. He took a sniff and wrinkled his nose. “God. This is foul.”

He handed the jar to Derek, who then took smelled it himself. “I smell dried nettle and snapdragon. I don’t know what the other thing is.” He closed the jar. “Take a look at what’s in the bag.”

Scott took the smaller jar from Derek’s hand, looking at the label. “‘For Stiles’,” he read out. “What is it?”

“Looks like tea.”

“Why would that thing leave tea for Stiles?” Scott was too afraid to open the smaller jar, in fear that it was some sort of poison.

“I don’t know.” Derek said honestly. “I don’t think it wanted to hurt us. Mountain ash is usually used for protection. It’s not an offensive weapon and it didn’t seem to have any weapons with it.”

Scott nodded. “Things don’t need weapons to hurt people. Remember the Nogitsune? Never actually had any weapons.” He sighed. “And I don’t exactly trust something that can cause a small earthquake and disappear in a puff of smoke.”

“I see your point.” The older werewolf crossed his arms. “Let’s take this stuff to Deaton. He’ll probably know a lot more than we do. Maybe he can tell us what we’re dealing with.”

Scott stuffed the small jar into his jacket, his eyes lingering on the label. “Maybe.”

* * *

“You need to pull over, Lyds.” Stiles said from the passenger seat. His face was going slightly green and she could tell that he was about to throw up. Beads of sweat slipped down his face from his forehead as he tried his damnedest not to do it in her car.

“I know.” She said, trying to stay calm despite the imminent panic that was digging itself deeper into her gut. “Just another minute, Stiles, we’re turning into your street.”

Stiles nodded weakly and took a deep breath, pushing down the knot in his stomach as much as he possibly could.

As soon as the car pulled into his driveway, Stiles opened the door and tumbled out onto the grass, letting out everything that had been in his stomach for the day. Lydia turned the car off and ran to him, and put a soothing had on his back, stroking it gently.

“We need to take you inside.” She said softly, almost whispering, and moved his hair away from his face. He nodded, not wanting to open his mouth in fear of being sick again. Stiles put his arm around her shoulders and let her bear his weight as they walked inside his house.

Since the Nogitsune, the house had been colder, more foreign. Everything was always dark and it didn’t feel like home when he walked in the house anymore. His father was barely home, and when he was, he would pour over another case. The Sheriff had taken to working overtime as much as he could to pay for Stiles’ medical bills from Eichen house and his short stay in the hospital. And Stiles worried about his dad. It was a never ending stream of worry that his dad wasn’t taking care of himself or working himself too hard.

Lydia helped him to the sofa and he immediately lay down, pulling an old embroidered cushion of his mother below his head.

“I’m getting you water.” Lydia told him.

“Get me some aspirin too.” He told her.

Over the past two weeks, Lydia had become another member of the Stilinski household. Her mother had called once asking if she was there, but, after that, it became the automatic assumption that Lydia was with Stiles. After his first night as a Nogitsune-free individual, he saw the faces of every person the Nogitsune had killed in his sleep. The faces of the dead, distorted in horror and fear of a man flanked by masked supernatural ninjas. Horrified by the man’s sly grin as he enjoyed watching them bleed out. Stiles saw his image in their eyes and would wake up screaming. The Sheriff didn’t know what to do but hold him, but even that wasn’t enough. His dad decided to call Lydia, not knowing what else to do, despite Stiles’ protests on the matter.

She came anyway. Despite hearing him telling his dad not to in the background. She packed a bag and came over in her pajamas and told him right then and there, that she was going to sleep right next to him and hold his hand because she cared about him and that there was no way that he was going to wake up alone.

Stiles didn’t have the guts to tell her about the dream he had had months ago where he woke up in her arms and then proceeded to let in the Nogitsune into his unconscious. Waking up with her was like deja vu. Terribly awful deja vu.

The first few nights, he slept on the floor and let her have the bed. After three nights of her persistence that the bed was big enough to share, he finally gave in.  Not wanting to upset her, and also because it was Lydia. There was no saying “no” to her.

Lydia took no time in getting a cup of water and aspirin for Stiles. It was practically second nature to her to get things from the kitchen. The Stilinski house had become more home to her than her own house. Everything in that house reminded her of someone that she couldn’t be anymore. There was no going back to being the carefree, ditsy-on-the-outside popular girl. She had lost her best friend and there was no way in hell that she would lose another one.

Taking care of Stiles made her feel useful. So that she didn’t just wallow in the misery of life without Allison or Aiden. There was no time for that when you were taking care of a boy who had lost so much heart and gained so much guilt.

She sometimes thought about what would have happened if she had dated Stiles instead of Aiden. If any of this would have happened. All of the signs were there to begin with. Deaton knew it, Allison knew it, even Aiden knew it. There was something between Lydia and Stiles, and she had never stopped to think about it as anything more than friendship. To be honest, she wasn’t sure if she could give her love away again.

She handed Stiles two aspirin pills and the glass of water. He moved his head up from the pillow he had pulled down and let her sit down. It was almost automatic now. Whenever he was sick, he would lay on the sofa with his head in her lap and she would gently stroke his hair until he fell asleep.

“You’re not getting better.” She said as he downed the aspirin. The words neither of them had wanted to say hung between them like dust in the air.

He put the glass of water on the floor and wrung his hands together. He was counting his fingers out of habit. “I know.”

She grabbed his hand in hers, threading her small fingers in between his long ones. “We should call Deaton. Maybe he’ll--”

“No.” He cut her off. “I’m just a little sick. Having your unconscious break into two parts and then get put back together makes you sick sometimes.” At least his sarcasm was still intact.

“I know, Stiles.” She sighed. “But remember what happened last time? You were possessed by an evil spirit--”

“Don’t.” The silence hung between them again. The topic of the Nogitsune was one that was simply not spoken of. Mostly because nobody wanted to be reminded of the sheer amount of deaths that had resulted in the spirit’s manifestation, but also because it was painful. It hurt him to be reminded of Allison and of Aiden. “Just don’t.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” She would go to her grave saying that it wasn’t his fault. Stiles had never asked for it.

“It is.” The faces of the dead would assure him that it was. “I opened the door.” Stiles sat up, moving away from Lydia to the other side of the sofa. He picked up the cushion and brought it to his chest. “If I hadn’t opened the door, Allison would be alive.” He said quietly.

Lydia turned to him. “Stop this.” She said firmly. “Allison was not your fault. Aiden was not your fault. The Nogitsune was not your fault. You, Stiles Stilinski, did not ask for any of this. None of us asked for this.”

“Yeah, but--”

“No buts.” She snapped. “Remember that night after the game when we went after Jackson? You told me that death doesn’t happen to you, it happens to the people around you. The people who love you.” She remembered that night like it was yesterday and remembered that she had wanted to tell him that Jackson’s death was happening to her. And now it was happening again. “I don’t say this enough, but if you died, Stiles, I would go out of my mind.” He looked up at her, his brown eyes bore into hers. “Seriously. Do you think I want to lose you? If I lose you, I don’t know if I’ll be able to pick up the pieces again.”

He stretched out his hand to hers, closing the chasm. “Okay.”

She took his hand. “Don’t leave me.”

His hand squeezed hers. “Never.”


	4. Snapdragons

Deaton stood outside the Stilinski house thinking about the last time that he had stood on its entryway. It had been when Scott and Lydia had entered Stiles’ mind to free him of the Nogitsune. The night of Allison’s death. He had never been particularly close with the girl, but he had always admired her wish to do the right thing, the wish to save as many as she could save. He opened the front door, which was already unlocked in anticipation of his arrival, and stepped into the living room.  

Not much had changed. The only change was the boy lying on the sofa, who looked like he was on the edge of death, and the redhead who was wiping the sweat off his forehead with a towel. Not exactly a welcome change.

“Thank god.” She whispered as she heard him close the door. Lydia stood up from the couch and went to Deaton. Without her usual high heels, she was much shorter and looked more vulnerable. “He’s spiking a fever. I gave him tylenol an hour ago and nothing’s happened.”

“You’ve done good.” Deaton assured her, moving towards Stiles.

Stiles was violently pale, almost the color of paper. Beads of sweat formed on his brow and made his features gleam. His eyes were open, but his pupils dilated as he looked at something much farther than Deaton. He was shivering, despite his high temperature. Deaton rested his hand on the boy’s forehead. It was freezing.

Suddenly, he grabbed Deaton’s arm. “You have to tell my mom.” He pleaded, eyes wide. “You have to tell her.”

Lydia placed a gentle hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “I’m going to tell her, okay?”  

His eyes met hers. “You promise?”

She nodded and he let go of Deaton’s arm. “How long has he been delirious?” Deaton asked her.

“Not long.” Stiles had fallen asleep on the couch and she had left to do some housework, cleaning and such. When she came back to check on his, he was freezing and asking for his mother. She had tried to calm his down and bring him back to reality, but nothing had worked. “I came back to check on him half an hour ago and found him like this.”

Deaton nodded. “We need to bring his temperature down.” He turned around and set his briefcase on the coffee table, opening it to reveal several jars of strange substances. “Go upstairs and start a cold bath. We’ll get his body to cool before we give him anything else.”

“Okay.” Lydia set down the cloth she had been using to wipe Stiles’ forehead and set off upstairs to start the bath.

Deaton sat down on the couch with Stiles. “How are you feeling?”

“Freezing.” He mumbled, teeth chattering slightly. “Where’s my mom?”

“She’s on her way. Just be patient.”

Stiles nodded. “You need to tell Malia.”

Deaton’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Tell her what, Stiles?”

The boy rested his head back down on the couch and closed his eyes. “That I’m sick. She’s going to be worried when I don’t show up for ‘How to be a person’ lessons.” A ghost of a smile appeared on his face. “If she gets mad then we’re going to have a were-coyote coming after me, and there’s no need to die twice in one day.”

“You’re not dying.” He reassured him, trying to believe it.

“Call her.” Stiles paused. “Please?”

“I’ll make sure to call her.”

“You have to call her house. She doesn’t have a cellphone.”

Deaton reached for the phone. “What’s her number?”

“It’s written on a sticky note on the fridge.” Stiles opened his eyes, looking at the ceiling. The shivering that had taken over his body was getting worse. He looked at his hands. They were shaking intensely.

Deaton looked down at Stiles just in time to see his eyes roll back and close. His body began shaking and convulsing. Deaton shot off the sofa and held Stiles’ head still. “Lydia!” He screamed to the house. He held Stiles tightly, not letting him fall off of the couch. The boy was seizing violently now, his muscles spazzing erratically.

Lydia ran down the stairs as quickly as she could, skipping steps on the way down. “What’s goin--” The sight of Stiles stopped her. She walked over slowly, eyes wide.

“I need you to help me move him onto his side.” Lydia nodded and helped Deaton turn Stiles onto his side. “Good. Now hold his arm to his side.” She moved around the sofa and held Stiles’ arm to his side from behind him. Tears were falling down her eyes as she watched him shake violently.

“How long has he been seizing?”

“A minute or so.” Lydia nodded, thinking back to everything she knew about seizures. Most generalized seizures only lasted a minute or less, but depending on the person, they could last for as long as an hour. Stiles went still under her hands and she let out a breath that she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

“Lydia?” Deaton said. “You can let him go now.”

She opened her eyes and loosened her grip on Stiles, but left her hand resting on his arm. “He’ll be asleep now for a while.”

Deaton nodded. “We need to get him into that bath and cool him down.” He moved towards her and handed her the phone that had been on the coffee table. “Can you call Scott for me? I’m going to get Stiles upstairs.”

“Sure.” She took the phone from him. “What should I say?”

Deaton started moving Stiles up and put the boys arm around his neck, bearing his weight. “Tell him that Stiles is sick and that he needs to come over and make a game plan.”

“Okay.” She started dialing the phone and Deaton started walking with the unconscious Stiles towards the stairs.

“Another thing,” she heard him say from behind her. “Stiles asked me to call Malia and tell her what’s happening. Would you do that?”

Lydia stared at the phone in her hands and swallowed the lump that instantly formed in her throat.  

* * *

The alley behind the animal clinic was never the most welcoming or safe-looking of places. It was constantly dark and lit only by the eerie golden glow of the singular street light that had been placed in the middle of the sidewalk. The quiet was always the creepiest part.

The animal clinic was empty and locked. There was no sign that Deaton had been there that night, and the back door, which Scott was usually able to open with his key, was locked with the master padlock that only Deaton had a key to.

Scott tried banging on the door again. “Shit.” Scott swore under his breath.

“Where do you think he is?” Derek asked.

“I don’t know. If he’s not here, then he’s either at home or on a call.” His boss rarely ever left the clinic in case there was a supernatural emergency that required his help, unless of course he had to leave to tend to the supernatural emergency. This was also a possibility.

“What do you want to do about the thing on the Nemeton?” Not that the thing seemed malignant or anything, but unknown creatures in Beacon Hills had a history of causing problems for the pack. “Do you just want to leave it or should we go after it?”

“I don’t know if we can.” Scott said honestly. “I couldn’t catch a scent.”

“Neither could I.” Derek admitted. Neither of them had been able to get close enough to the creature before it disappeared and the smell of smoke that it had left behind had masked any personal scent that it could have left. Not to mention that disappearing meant that there was no trail to track a scent on. “But snapdragons aren’t exactly native to this region. If it used snapdragons in whatever’s in the jar then it had to be grown. And that will have a scent.”

Scott looked down at the jar in Derek’s hand. “Couldn’t they have just used dried snapdragons? Those won’t have a scent.”

Derek shook his head. “Dried plants don’t have the same potency as fresh ones do, and if this thing was trying to do something with the Nemeton’s power, it would have to use the most potent stuff it can find.”

“Right.” Scott paused for a second. “How do you know so much about this plant stuff?”

Derek smiled. “Deaton had a book on plant magic in his library and I was curious.”

“You remind me of Lydia.” He said.

“That’s a good thing. We’d all be dead without her.”

“Good point.” Scott reached into his pocket to get his phone. “I’m going to call Deaton--” He stopped abruptly, looking at his phone’s screen.

“What’s wrong, Scott?”

“It’s Stiles.” He said, still staring at the screen. “He’s sick and they need my help.” He paused. “I have to go.”

“Okay.” Derek said, putting a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “How can I help?”

“Find that thing. Find out why it’s here and what it wants.”

Derek nodded. “Take this with you.” After handing Scott the jar of powder, he started running towards the end of the alley, leaving Scott standing in the pale glow of the street lamp.

Now alone, Scott stood for a minute and looked at his phone to Lydia’s messages. They read:

_Come to Stiles’ house. Please. He’s sick._

_Please answer the phone. I need you here._

_I don’t know what to do Scott. Come over._

_Please I think he’s dying._

_It’s Stiles for god’s sake. Come over._

_Please_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter! This one is a little bit shorter than the other ones, but I cut it down so that the next chapter flows more cohesively. Thanks for all of the Kudoses (Kudi? Is that a thing? Is that how I say that?)! 
> 
> In other news, SEASON FOUR IS HERE! AND ALSKDFJASODIUFALJSDFA! Although I wasn't too keen on **Dark Moon** as an episode, it is a premiere and those are normally not too good. I really missed the parents in the episode. I kinda wish they were around. Though I was pleased with how they're treating Malia so far. I actually really like her as a character. She's all blunt and "I don't give a fuck" like. I like how she just says exactly what's on her mind. It's refreshing. And I like her dynamic with Stiles. I have it in my headcanon that every time Stiles starts being an idiot she just gives him a blank look that says "I don't understand your kind and your affinity for flailing".
> 
> AND SCOTT AND KIRA! LAKJALSKDHALSKAJSLDJA! SO MUCH CUTE! *feels intensify* 
> 
> Anyway, I wasn't going to include Malia in this, but then I liked her so much that I'm going to bring her into the mix.


	5. Fade

Scott couldn’t process anything that Deaton seemed to be telling him. There was a glass wall between him and every other person standing in Stiles’ room. The only thing that he could hear was Stiles’ shallow breathing and weak pulse. The life had drained right out of his friend’s features and he looked as if he had come from a black and white movie, with no colours to fill his features. Stiles was asleep and hadn’t woken up after he had had a seizure. They had tried to bring his temperature down with medicine and a cold bath but nothing could rouse the boy from his inert state.

Lydia was sitting at the foot of Stiles’ bed, tears running down her face. Scott didn’t know what was worse, losing someone you love abruptly or watching them fade away slowly as you stand by helplessly. Lydia wasn’t a doctor or a werewolf, she could do nothing except sit at Stiles’ bedside and hold his hand.

“Scott.” Deaton said sharply, snapping Scott out of his thoughts. “Are you listening?”

“Yes.” Scott lied, feeling guilty for zoning out. “What’s happening to Stiles?”

“I don’t know.” He said. “I can’t figure out what’s going on with him.”

“I have something that might help.” Scott reached into his jacket and took out the jar that the thing at the Nemeton had given them. “There was a thing at the Nemeton who gave us this.” He elaborated, handing Deaton the jar. “Do you know what it is?”

Lydia looked up to Scott and Deaton. “What thing at the Nemeton?”

“There was some sort of creature there that gave us this jar. It says it’s for Stiles.”

“Will it help him?” She asked, her voice hollow.

“It may.” Deaton opened the jar and smelled it. “It’s a herb mixture used for healing. A powerful one.” He closed the jar and turned to Lydia. “Go downstairs and boil these in a pot of water and then bring it back up here.”

Reluctantly, Lydia nodded and wiped away the tears that were still running down her face. She got up from her perch and took the jar from Deaton, exiting the room quietly. Scott could hear her light steps as she went to the kitchen to make the tea.

After a moment, Scott spoke up. “What do you really think is wrong with him?”

“I wasn’t lying when I said that I’m not sure.” He said plainly. “But I know that it has something to do with the Nemeton.”

“Why?”

Deaton crossed his arms. “It’s a bit strange that you and Stiles had a rush of pain at the same time. But since you are the only one remaining sacrifices, it makes sense.” He explained. “If Allison were... here, I think she would have felt the same thing.”

Scott nodded in agreement, pushing away the thought of Allison. “What about the thing at the Nemeton?”

“What did it look like?”

The wolf scratched the back of his neck. “Human. I could tell if it was male or female. It was wearing a mask and dressed all in black. But it looked human.”

“What did it scent smell like?”

“I couldn’t tell.” He admitted. “There was a ring of mountain ash around the Nemeton and we couldn’t get close until the thing disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Yeah.” Scott affirmed. “Disappeared. In a puff of smoke.”

Deaton smiled slightly. “How theatrical.”

“Yeah.” He agreed. It had been like a scene from a play. “Do you know what it is?”

“Well,” he began. “With the puff of smoke and the healing tisane that it gave you, I think you have a witch in Beacon Hills.”

“A witch?” There was no way that Scott could believe that. The next thing he expected Deaton to tell him would be that there were fairies out by the Nemeton as well.

Deaton, however, looked completely serious. “Yes. A witch.”

“You’re serious?” He hoped that Deaton wasn’t right in his predictions. They had been through so much in the past year and Scott didn’t know if he was ready to deal with a new problem when Allison had just been lowered into the ground. He didn’t know if the pack was ready to fight without their huntress.

Allison had been with him from the beginning, fighting for what was right, keeping them safe. She was there for the best and the worst, despite losing her mother and her aunt in one year. She had fought through everything with persistence and heart. Scott didn’t know how he could be an alpha without her to ground him.

“Quite.”

“Are they dangerous?” He asked, now worried that there was yet another evil creature in town for them to fight.

“Depends.” Deaton shrugged. “Most witches are solitary and pledge to travel and keep the balance. They’re like wandering emissaries. They fix things for people quietly, without getting noticed.”

“That’s why it was wearing a mask?” He remembered the black mask that the apparent witch had worn. It was completely expressionless, much like the creature.

“Exactly.”

“Well, we saw it. So it didn’t do a very good job.” Scott grumbled, sounding oddly like Derek.

“You still don’t know what it looks like, or where it is.” Deaton pointed out. “If you saw it, it wanted to be seen.”

Downstairs, the doorbell rung. Scott could hear Lydia opening the door and the person walking right by her, heading straight for the stairs. He didn’t have to look around or focus on her smell to know it was Malia.

“What happened?” She asked as she barreled through the room at full speed. When she looked at Stiles, her face went pale and blank with shock. “Stiles...” She breathed out.

Immediately, she sat next to him on the bed took his hand. Malia wasn’t the type of person to cry and be overly emotional. Instead, her face showed determination and Scott didn’t doubt for a second that she was swearing revenge on whatever had hurt him.

“He’s going to be fine, Malia.” He assured her, taking a step forward and putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We’re going to make sure of that.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Deaton shook his head. “Not right now. Lydia is downstairs making a tea for him that might help. She should be back soon.”

“Right.” She laced her fingers through Stiles’. The boy didn’t stir in his sleep.

“Am I interrupting something?” Lydia asked from the door, holding a small cup of cooling tea in her hand. It smelled lovely, Scott noted, like spring and home.

“No.” Malia told her. Despite having feelings for the same boy, Lydia and Malia were always perfectly civil to each other. “Come here.” She moved over to let Lydia take her place and give Stiles the tea.

They weren’t, and probably would never be, best friends, but they got along. Though Malia didn’t always agree with Lydia’s need to always look good or her need to comment on the appearance of almost every boy they saw, she respected Lydia for her strength and her level of commitment to Stiles.

Lydia took Malia’s place and opened Stiles’ mouth slightly. Carefully, she tipped the cup of cooling liquid so that a small stream flowed slowly. Reflexively, he swallowed and the whole room let out a small sigh of relief.

“What now?” Malia asked Scott.

He looked to Deaton. “Now we wait.”

* * *

Snapdragons, as it turns out, did not have a particularly strong scent. Derek ran through the woods, plowing through everything in his path, trying to track the weak scent of the plant.

The singular good thing about tracking snapdragons was the fact that they were not indigenous to woods and forests, and tended to grow in deserts and very dry, rocky landscapes. The nearest rocky and desert-y area was two hours away. Unless the mysterious figure travelled two hours with a plant made a concoction that would take at least a day to make without staying anywhere in between, he was sure that they would have to be nearby.

There was also a feeling that Derek couldn’t shake as he ran through the woods. That was the thought that there was something coming. He didn’t know what would be coming, but he knew that the thing would stay for it. It didn’t seem in a rush to leave and Derek felt that, whatever it was, it would stay for whatever was coming.

As he ran farther, he got to a part of the woods that he had never been to before. He wasn’t sure that he could say that it was still the woods. There were no more trees around him, and tall grass stretched before him for what seemed like miles.

In the distance, Derek could see a small farm, complete with a farmhouse, a silo, and a barn. Getting closer to it, he saw that the house and barn looked unkempt and abandoned, with planks of wood missing and the paint chipped.

The nearer he got to the barn, the stronger the scent of the plant was, so he kept going until he reached its door.

He stood outside of the barn, looking through a hole in the rotted wood. Inside, the barn was like new, betraying the outside of it. Through the hole, he could see a table with plants and herbs of every variety on it. Next to it was a large, expansive chemistry set with a large, ancient book sitting next to it.

The other side of the barn had simple furniture that you would find in a bedroom. A simple wood bed, a wardrobe, and a desk. Everything was kept in military precision with the bed made and the items on the desk laying in corresponding angles to one another.

In the center of the barn, a girl stood on top of a large square of cushioned mats. She was small, but seemed older. Her brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and fell in loose curls down her back. She was only wearing a tank top and shorts. Her exposed arms showed black marking of symbols that Derek couldn’t recognize.

Derek could see that she had weapons on her. A knife in a sheath by her ankle, another set of them at her thigh, and two on each wrist.

She turned around and, for a second, Derek thought she had seen him. She continued staring straight ahead of her when two faceless figures materialized behind her. They started attacking her, swinging their arms in attempt to immobilize her.  

None of their punches hit her. She dodged every single strike, moving her body as fluidly as water. One of the figures ran at her with a knife pointed in her direction. The girl twirled and took out the knives that had been sheathed at her wrists, throwing them with deadly accuracy at his chest.

The other figure howled painfully at the sight of its fallen brethren and charged at the girl with a large dagger. The girl stood still, letting the thing get closer and closer, until it was no more than a foot away from her. Suddenly, she ducked, taking out the dagger at her ankle and throwing it at the creature’s wrist. The dagger cut straight through the thing’s arm and the hand that had been holding the dagger fell to the ground with a resounding thud.

The girl stood up straight, looking at the figure with murder in her eyes. Any thoughts that Derek had had about helping her had now been replaced by pure fear. The look in the girl’s eyes made the hairs on his neck stand up.

Her hands moved up from her side and started to emit an amber glow from them. The light pulsed from her palms as she brought them up, pointing towards the thing that was backing away from her in fear. With a sudden burst, the light shot forward into the creature, burning a hole the size of a basketball through his chest. The thing looked down at his chest for a second, and then dissolved into a puff of dust.

The girl smiled at where the creature once stood and started undoing the sheaths at her wrists. She looked towards where Derek was standing again and he held her gaze. With a small sigh, she simply said: “I know you’re there, Derek Hale.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDIT (07/10/2014):** The title comes from the song Fade by Balance and Composure.


	6. Ginseng

“Please,” the girl said, gesturing to the small set of couches that suddenly materialized in the middle of the barn. “Take a seat.” Derek carefully stepped into the barn, wary of things appearing and disappearing at the snap of her fingers. The place itself wasn’t much larger than the loft, but it repurposed itself at the girls will. Gone were the training materials and the chemistry set, and in their place were a couple of couches and a full kitchen, respectively. It had become a small apartment in a second. “Would you like some tea?” She asked from the kitchen.

Derek took a seat on the loveseat, setting the jar of powder on the coffee table. “Yes, I’d love some.”

“How did you find me?” She put a kettle on the stove and found two mismatched mugs in the cabinet.

“Snapdragons.” He said simply.

She smiled and a vase of pink snapdragons materialized on the coffee table. “They have quite a distinctive scent, don’t they?”

“They also don’t grow in the area.” He turned to face her, she was leaning on the kitchen counter, arms folded across her chest. “Makes them easier to find.” She held his gaze and started towards the armchair across from him. “Unless you wanted to be found?”

She sat down and shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

There was a long pause as they held each other’s gaze and Derek tried to dissect every part of her. She was a supernatural being, probably a witch or something along the lines of that, but she looked vaguely familiar. Like a face he could have seen in a picture or a stranger from when he was a child. “Who are you?”

She sighed, sounding almost disappointed. “That’s the wrong question.”

“You know who I am.” He pointed out.

She pondered this for a moment. “Yes. I do.”

“So it’s only fair that I should know who you are.”

The kettle started whistling. “That’s fair.” She got up and went to the kitchen, taking the kettle off the stove top and pouring the steaming water into the two mugs. “My name is Emma Garrett.” She set the kettle back down on the stove and handed him a mug. Steam rose up from the mug as the small bag of green herbs bobbed up and down in the water.

“What are you?” He asked, sniffing the strong smelling tea.

Emma set her own mug down on the coffee table. “Not trying to kill you.”

Derek raised his eyebrow. “Then why were you at the Nemeton?”

“Well,” she said uneasily. “It’s complicated.”

He set his own mug down and looked at her squarely. “Try me.”

“I’m trying to muffle it.” Her grey eyes did not waver for a second. “For now, anyway.”

“Muffle it?”

“For now.” She repeated, arching her eyebrow. “At least until I figure out a way to completely deplete its powers.” She paused for a second. “It’s ginseng, by the way.”

“Why?”

“Why ginseng?” Her hand reached back for her mug and she took a sip of the now steeped tea before crossing her legs. “It strengthens and helps you gain endurance.”

A slow, but burning feeling of annoyance started creeping into Derek and he could feel his patience thinning by the second. “Why are you trying to ‘muffle’ the Nemeton?”

“Because some idiot decided to sacrifice humans to it.” She said sternly. “Which paved the way for a mass murdering spirit to manifest itself in one of your little friends. Who, by the way, is still tied to the damn thing.”

“Stiles?” While it would certainly explain why Stiles’ recent turn for the worse, it didn’t explain Emma’s presence in Beacon Hills. “Why do you care about Stiles?”

Emma’s jaw tightened. “Now you listen, and listen well.” Her legs uncrossed and she inched forward. “You have done a terrible job at keeping this town safe. Your job as a pack is not to rampage through the streets in a turf war with hunters, but that’s over thankfully. Then you made the decision to turn a boy who was clearly unbalanced and created a monster who was controlled by another monster. Normally these things sort themselves out, and I can just sit and watch. But when a maniacal spirit decides to kill several dozens of people, I make it my business to care before another, much less benevolent, person does.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Derek could feel the anger running through her veins like fire. “To save us from the Nemeton.”

“No, I wish it was just that.” She said shortly, and her emotions flickered and then went out like a lightbulb, the small flash of anger just a memory to him. “Sometimes when you have a center of power like the Nemeton, certain... beings, want to use its power. Much like your Darach problem. It’s one thing to draw on the powers of the earth, it’s another to feed it to the point of instability.”

Paige’s face flashed in his mind. “But we destroyed the Nogitsune and the Darach.”

“Yes.” She agreed. “You did. But once the Darach was slayed before she could use the power of the Nemeton, which is what fed your Nogitsune. But because the power was just _there_ it started to multiply and feed on the power that it could.”

“Why don’t you just use the power yourself?”

Emma smiled sadly. “Absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

Derek stared down at his hands for a moment, remembering when his mother uttered those same words to him as a child. It was a common enough phrase in the Hale household before the fire. Talia Hale had always told him that sharing the power was what made a pack. “There is no worse heresy than that the office sanctifies the holder of it.” He finished the phrase.

“Exactly.”

Talia Hale’s soft, low voice lingered in his mind. “You knew my mother.”

Emma nodded. “She was a great woman. I didn’t know her as well as your sister, but I met her once and it was enough.”

“Cora?”

“No.” She said. “I met Cora when she was a child. But I knew Laura after the fire.” She cast her eyes down. “I’m sorry that she died. If I had known about your uncle, I would have helped more.” Emma had liked Laura because she had her mother’s level-headed and kind nature, unlike her brash siblings. “I am here as a debt to her.”

“To Laura?”

“To your mother. She helped me as a child and now it is my turn.”

A dull ache began to fester in Derek’s head. This conversation had taken so many turns and he had gotten none of the answers that he had come to get. He didn’t know what to think of any of it. His mother, his sister, Stiles... Everything was a jumble.

But he felt like she had told him everything that he had asked for. She told him that he was asking the wrong question. What was the right one? “What does that mean?”

Emma stood up and put her hand on his, bending down so that her face was level with his. “Think.”

Their eyes locked and the question rose from the dark rims of her gray eyes. “Who is coming?” He whispered.

“The Crow.”

* * *

His mind was heavy with the weight of a metric fuckton and though Stiles knew that this wasn’t exactly a unit of measurement, it was the only one that would be able to accurately describe how hard it was to open his eyes, but he tried anyway.

The light almost blinded him at first. It was seeping in through the blinds of his bedroom window and flooding the whole room with light. He realized that he couldn’t remember getting into his bed. He tried to inch up, but he found that he was being literally weighed down by something. Laying next to him with her head on his shoulder was Malia, her face slack with sleep. Her arm thrown across his chest protectively and her legs shrewn in odd directions that looked in no way comfortable.

He was thought quite seriously about waking her up, but she looked so peaceful. None of her usual brashness was present when she was asleep and waking her could be like kicking a very deadly puppy.

Instead, he chose to gently stroke her hair with the hand that wasn’t pinned down to his side by the sleeping girl. Her hair was a mess, tangling into thick knots that he knew she would much rather hack off than worry about brushing out. Stiles didn’t have to be a genius to see that Malia tried her best to be more like Lydia. She put in every ounce of effort that she had to be patience with herself and put an effort into how she looked. Sure, she did it in her own way, putting comfort over style more often than not, but he’d catch her cursing every time she tried to do her hair and makeup in the morning. In a perfect world, she’d listen to him when he told her that she didn’t need it, but it wasn’t a perfect world, and it seemed that women just loved to ignore him.

Malia started stirring as Stiles threaded his hand through her hair and let it linger down her neck, tracing patterns on her back. He let his fingers find the ridges of her spine and the curves of her shoulders. She let out a small sigh and then a groan.

“Morning sunshine.” He said softly.

She rubbed her eyes, fighting to wake up. “Hey.” All of the sudden, she shot upright and turned to look at him. “Hey!” She said again, her voice sounding a mixture of excitement and worry.

“Hey yourse--” He smiled, but was soon cut off when Malia slapped his arm. Rather hard. “Hey!”

“Hey yourself, Stiles!” She yelled at him. “You scared us to death!”

Stiles rose up slightly, resting his back on the headboard, and ignored the throbbing pain that was radiating from every muscle in his body. “In my defense, I was kind of dying.” He pointed out, hoping to get at least a smile out of her.

Malia’s face stayed serious, her eyebrows knitting together in the traditional Hale fashion. “It’s not funny. We were seriously worried.”

His face dropped and he reached his hand to hers. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mea--”

“I know you didn’t.” She threaded her fingers through his. “But you have to tell us when you’re in pain.” She took a deep breath in. “Lydia was a wreck when I got here. You should apologize to her.”

“I should.” He agreed, but thinking since when does Malia care about Lydia? “Is she still here?”

“Yeah. She’s downstairs.” She said. “I’ll go get her.”

Malia started heading to the door, but Stiles held onto her hand, their fingers locked together. “Wait.”

She didn’t turn. “I’m sorry.” He told her honestly.

“For what?”

Stiles pulled her hand towards him, forcing her to turn around and meet his eyes. “I know that I’m always saying that you’re improving, but I’m kind of an ass about it sometimes. But you are. You keep surprising me at every turn.”

And she wanted to believe him, she really did. “Stiles...” But she didn’t. “I may not be very good at being human, but I’m not an idiot. I see the way you and Lydia look at each other.” His hand dropped back onto the bed as she let it go. “I just don’t want to be the one responsible for keeping you apart.”

“Don’t be.” He told her. Stiles threw the blanket to the side and, ignoring his aching muscles, stood up. Black spots invaded his vision, and all sense of warmth seemed to leave his head. “I’ve had a crush on Lydia since we were eight and for the longest time, my only goal was to see her happy.” He looked to the corner of his room where the presents he had bought for Lydia’s birthday had once been, and then his gaze drifted back to Malia’s soft brown eyes. “But what she wanted was a friend who knew who she really was, not a boyfriend. It took me a really long time to figure that out and it hurt like hell to see her with a bunch of guys who weren’t good for her.” Like Aiden and Jackson. “Then last year I realized that it’s not up to me to decide what’s good or bad for Lydia. That’s _her_ job. I have to do what makes me happy now and you make me happy.” Which was true. Nothing could take away his feelings for Lydia, but Malia genuinely liked him for who he was. It was such a surprise to him that she liked him in the first place. Every time she didn’t leave, it surprised him. “So don’t worry about me and Lydia. We’re friends. A lot more than friends, really, but purely platonic.”

She searched his eyes for any sign of doubt or dishonesty, but found none. “Are you sure?” She asked.

“Yeah.” Stiles told her honestly. “Now come on, I’m really sore and I want to go downstairs.” He put his arm around her shoulder and she put hers around his waist, letting him put his weight on her.

Malia gave him a microscopic smile. She thought back to her time was a coyote, when she was free of human feelings and complications. When she was with anyone but Stiles, she longed to be running through the woods again, but with him, it was her heart that did the running. So she helped him down the stairs and ignored the smell of pain that radiated from him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for going AWOL for a while. I got sick, then it was Canada Day, and then I went to see Night Vale in Toronto (which was, quite possibly, the best show I've ever seen) with my platonic life partner. But now I'm back to being bored at work and writing during my lunch breaks! So YAY!
> 
> So this chapter introduces my OC, Emma, and hopefully you like her! Also, I decided to follow Season 4 canon relationships for now. I like the idea of Malia and Stiles together for now. I don't think it's the type of relationship that will last since they both lack confidence in their abilities and feel guilt for their past actions. But I think that it'll be good for now to keep them together and then do some Stydia later. I ship Stydia, I just think it needs more time. 
> 
> Remember to comment!


	7. Things I Can't Change

The aroma of sliced peppers and fish wafted through the air and filled every corner of the kitchen. The house was silent, except for the sound of sizzling coming from the skillet where Lydia was cooking vegetables for dinner. She had figured that she was useless now that Stiles was with Malia and decided that making dinner was the best way to keep herself busy.

She took a wooden spoon and gave the onions a quick stir, so that they wouldn’t burn at the bottom of the skillet. The oil from the pan jumped up and almost caught her skin. She hadn’t taken the time to cook in such a long time. Whenever she was with Stiles, which was a lot, he was the one who did all of the cooking. She could safely say that Stiles was a much better cook than she was. The man could make the best low-fat stir fry she had ever had. Everything Stiles made was low-everything, because he always left food for his dad.

After his mother had died, the Sheriff really let himself go. The drinking and the overworking had really taken their toll on his health, so Stiles did everything that he could to keep his dad healthy. Which meant if he had to give up eating like a teenage boy, he would.

Lydia leaned on the counter, setting the spoon down on a small dish so that the counter wouldn’t get dirty. Stiles had taught her that. The first time that she had cooked at his house, she had set down a tomato sauce caked spoon and Stiles had nearly had a heart attack.

“If you leave dirty things on the counter for too long, they harden and make gross crusty things and then it brings in bacteria and it molds and takes, like, a million years to get off.” He told her, getting a tiny plate that probably served as a coffee saucer in its past life and putting the spoon on it. “Dishes are easy to clean. Stick ‘em in hot water and the grossness is gone.”

She figured that if they ever lived together, Stiles would be the one doing all of the cooking and cleaning. He was so used to taking care of his dad and the house at this point, that she doubted he would even let her do anything. She had been really privileged in that aspect, never having to help with housework unless she really wanted to. Thinking about it, Lydia had never really cleaned a bathroom in her life. Stiles cleaned the house every other Sunday.

“Sunday is cleaning day.” He had told her when she came over one time, a Sunday. He’d looked absolutely ridiculous in his rubber gloves and old concert t-shirt. “On Saturday, you go out with your friends. On Sunday, you get things done. Homework, laundry, housecleaning...”

Stiles ran the house with military precision. She wouldn’t be surprised if he joined the army after they finished High School. Not that she’d want him to. If she had her way, she’d handcuff him to her and make him follow her forever. He probably wouldn’t mind.

But she wasn’t allowed to do that anymore. Stiles had Malia now. And he was happy. If there was one thing he deserved, it was happiness. He had suffered so much in the past year and he deserved a break.

It wouldn’t be fair for her to spring her feelings on him now. Not when things were actually looking up for him.

Plus, Malia was a sweet girl. Mostly.

She had a habit of creeping into Stiles’ room in the middle of the night. Then Lydia would have to go sleep in the spare bedroom and listen to Stiles and Malia having very loud sex across the hall. At least Stiles tried to be quiet, Malia screamed louder than a banshee and she personally knew how loud _those_ screams were.

On those nights, she’d wake up and make breakfast and wait for him to come into the kitchen, then she would tease him mercilessly. Malia never understood her jokes.

“Hey.” Lydia looked up at the kitchen door, where Stiles was, mostly, standing.

“Hey.” She smiled. He still looked pale and weak, but at least he was awake now. “How are you feeling?”

“Just dandy.” At least his humor was still intact. “Peachy.” He took a few steps into the kitchen and immediately sat down at the table.

“Good to see your sarcasm isn’t gone.” She told him.

“Taking my sarcasm away would take away my only weapon.” His eyebrows shot up as he rolled his eyes. He always did that when he was being sarcastic. “Look at me.”

Lydia pursed her lips. “You’ve got a point there.” He had lost a bit of weight in the past week, but it only made his muscles look more defined.

“Hey!” Stiles exclaimed, slightly insulted. “I’ve been working out!” Since Allison’s death, he had started jogging on the mornings when he woke up from a nightmare, which was often. Sometimes, when she woke up early enough, she’d see him on the porch doing pushups and crunches before running down the street. “I’m starting to get a six pack.”

“I can barely see it, Stiles.”

“It’s a work in progress.” He assured her. “Where’s Scott?”

“He went back to his house when your fever broke.” Lydia grabbed the spoon. “He’ll be back for dinner.”

She turned back to check on the vegetables, deciding that they had roasted enough and turning off the burner and changing the pan to a cooler place. “It smells really good, Lyds. Good to know you’re not just smart and pretty, but practical too.”

“Thank you.” She gave him a genuine smile, her face lighting up. She grabbed a large glass dish and starting pouring the vegetables evenly. “I have many talents.”

“You really do.”

Stiles could get used to having her around. He loved that she hung around the house all the time. It was a great chance for him to really get to know her, and, loving Lydia like he did, it was all he’d ever wanted. If this had happened last year, he probably would have died of happiness, worshipped the ground she walked on, waited on her beck and call, but not anymore. Now they were equals and he knew that he had to respect her choices, regardless of what they were, because now he made the same ones.

He’d berated Lydia for her imperfect relationships with Jackson and Aiden, but now he understood that love wasn’t always straight forward and linear. It was complicated and weird. He and Malia were almost polar opposites, and sometimes he felt more like her babysitter than her boyfriend, but then she’d say something completely amazing and stop him in his tracks.

So he tried to ignore the way his heart picked up whenever Lydia smiled at him. He wished she had werewolf hearing so she’d know how he felt about her. He wished he could say it out loud, but he couldn’t. Instead he said: “thank you.”

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “For what?”

“For taking care of me? For sticking around? For making dinner? For not giving up on me, despite pretty much everything?” Stiles took a deep breath, letting his lungs crash into his ribs. “Take your pick.”

“Stop it.” She snapped, putting down the pan on the counter with a clang. “Don’t you dare even start with that.”

He sank deeper into the chair. “With what?”

“With your guilt. You are the only best friend I have left. You better believe I’m going to fight with tooth and claw to keep you around.”

Her face was blushing bright red, but not from the heat. Stiles sized her up, she had changed just as much as he had. “Good to know, Lyds.”

“And don’t get me started.” She warned him. “You should have told us that you weren’t feeling okay.”

“I was fine!” He protested. “One minute everything was clear as day, and then my head turned into a chemical reaction between an alkali metal and water.” The sound of his voice echoed off the tiles on the kitchen walls. Both of them were silent. Then Lydia started laughing, suddenly and fully, her face lighting up and her eyes shutting. The muscles on the corner of his face twitched up as he started laughing with her. “What?” He asked.

She breathed in, trying to contain herself. “It’s just,” she breathed, “what metal?”

“Come again?”

She waved her hand at him. “Never mind.”

“Now I want to know!”

Lydia closed her eyes for a second and took a deep breath, suppressing the laughter bubbling inside her. “You said alkali metal. You didn’t say which one. Lithium is an alkali metal and when it mixes with water, it effervesces.”

Now it was Stiles’ turn to be confused. “Effer--what?”

She smiled. “It means it heats up. Your brain was boiling.”

“That’s a pretty picture. But how is it funny?”

“It’s funny because it’s true.” This is the reason Lydia sat with him in Chemistry. “You had a fever.”

“Right.” He still didn’t get the joke.

“Don’t worry about it.” She turned to the oven, still smiling, and took out the fish that was baking inside, checking if it was ready, deciding it wasn’t.

“Malia said something interesting upstairs.” He blurted out, bringing his thumb up to his mouth and biting the nail.

Lydia stopped in her tracks, the oven still open. “What did she say?”

Stiles brought his thumb out of his mouth. “She said she sees the way that we look at each other. She says she doesn’t want to keep us apart.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.”

“But we’re together right now.”

“That’s not the kind of together she meant.”

She shut the oven door and stood up, but didn’t turn to face him. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Is that how you feel?”

“I’m more interested in how you feel, to be honest.”

“Right.”

“So...”

“So?”

“How do you feel, Lyds? Be honest.” The expectation of those words burned from her chest to her toes, filling every inch of her with dread. Part of her wanted to be selfish and tell him everything, but the other part of her wanted to be the selfless girl that Stiles thought she was. She wanted to be worthy of him.

But Lydia Martin wasn’t known for her selflessness. “Yes.”

Stiles straightened up in his chair. “Yes?”

She turned to face him, green staring at brown. “Yes.”

His heart hitched. “How long?”

“Sometime after you searched the school for a bomb that could kill you and before you had that panic attack.”

Stiles looked down at his hands, not being able to bear the weight of her eyes. “That long, huh?”

“Stiles...” She started, but she didn’t know how to keep going. The words died in her throat. She walked around the island and sat down in the chair next to him. “I wanted to tell you.” She choked, tears forming in her eyes. “So much. But then you weren’t you--”

“Lyd--”

“Then there was Malia--”

“Lydia--”

“And now I know how you felt--”

“Lydia!” He yelled and she stopped. Stiles pulled away. “Just stop.”

“Stiles--”

“No.” His voice was firm, resolved. “That’s not fair.”

“But--”

“Stop, Lydia.” His brown eyes were deep and unwavering, their familiar warmth gone. “It’s not fair to me or to Malia.” He paused, dissecting her with his silence. “It’s not fair to you.”

“What do you mean?”

His eyes softened, losing their iciness. “You need time to yourself, Lyds. You’ve been in relationships for the past two years.” Stiles told her. “Jackson broke your heart and Aiden broke your heart then died. I’m the last person you need as your boyfriend.”

She shook her head, the tears no threatening to fall. “No...”

“Lydia...” He reached his hand to touch her cheek, his thumb gently wiping the tear trailing down her cheek. “I’m a mess. I was possessed. I killed a bunch of people and stabbed two of my closest friends. One of them died. I’m still trying to figure out what that makes me.”

“But you’re with Malia.”

“I don’t really know what we are.” He admitted with a shrug. “I know that I like her. A lot. And that I’m not the guy who’s been in love with Lydia Martin with her. Or the kid who’s Scott’s best friend. Or the deranged psychopath who killed a bunch of innocent people.” His hand dropped back onto the table. “I’m just Stiles.”

Lydia took his hand in hers. “You’ll never be ‘just’ Stiles.”

His hand squeezed hers. “Exactly.” Stiles rubbed his eyes. “I’ll never be who I was again and I know there's things I can't change, but I need to figure out where that leaves me.”

She shook her head, and then nodded, squeezing the tears out of her eyes. “You’re right. You don’t need this drama right now.” Lydia got up and walked around the island. She turned the dial on the oven, shutting it down, before taking an oven mitt and putting it on her hand.

“For what it’s worth,” she heard him say, his voice gentle. “I may not be _in_ love with you, but I will always love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back! I was going to write a split chapter, but I was so wrapped up in Stydia that this is going to be a Stydia-centric chapter. I was so tempted to just make them drop everything and make out on the kitchen floor, but then I was like nahhhhh. Patience is a virtue. It will happen. Eventually. 
> 
> Now, I'm sorry for not posting as frequently as I was, but I've been a bit tied up with work so I'll still be writing, just not every day or two. I'll post every three or four days.
> 
>  **EDIT** : I totally forgot. The title comes from the song Things I Can't Change by The Story So Far!


	8. Vox Audita Perit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for going AWOL for a while. I was in New York, and then I had mad writer's block. Hopefully the next chapter won't take as long to write. SORRY!

“I will only speak to you or your Alpha.” Emma said, holding a potted snapdragon closer to her chest. The words tattooed on her arms swirled as her muscles moved.She looked out of the passenger window of Derek’s car at the damp town. There was a coat of dew covering practically everything in Beacon Hills in the late evening. “It’ll be a waste of time to keep repeating myself.”

He let out an exasperated sigh. They were moving in circles at this point and he didn’t know what was more annoying, her stubbornness, or the fact he couldn’t break her even with his best glare. “You won’t have to repeat yourself. We can wait at Stiles’ house until the whole pack is there.”

“Who said I want to meet the whole pack?” Her voice hitched up in what was almost a shriek.

Derek turned his face for a second to look at her, but she wouldn’t meet his eye. “And why not?” He asked. “It’s not like I wasn’t going to tell them who you are.”

“Word of mouth is one thing, but actually seeing me? That’s a whole other ballpark.” She pointed out. He had managed to coerce her into getting into his car after she’d teleported them back into town. Derek never wanted to teleport again. It was the most unpleasant feeling he had ever been subjected to. “If the Crow find out that I was actually here, you won’t be the only ones targeted. I will be at the top of their hit list.”

He rolled his eyes. “We’ll protect you.” They’d protected their enemies in the past. He thought back to the twins and Peter. Scott was just that kind of guy. He would rather die than see anyone innocent die. Losing Allison was the worst day of his life and Derek could feel the pain that shot out of him in waves and the funeral had only poured salt on the healing wounds. The police department had decided that they wanted to conduct an investigation on the Oni who had been responsible for the deaths of the town. They had held her body hostage for almost two weeks.

“I don’t doubt that you’ll try.” Emma assured him. “I only doubt that you’ll succeed.”

Derek fought back the urge to growl at her. He really wanted to let the fangs out and everything, but that wouldn’t be warm and welcoming to the girl he had just offered to protect.

There was also the fact that she reminded him vaguely of Allison. They didn’t look too alike, or act alike, but there was something in Emma that reminded him of the girl they had failed to save. It could be the brown hair, he thought. But Emma’s hair was darker than Allison’s had been, her skin was more tanned, and her eyes weren’t Allison’s chocolate brown. Not at all. Her eyes were an unnerving shade of blue that made them look almost translucent, with only dark specs ensuring that they weren’t.

Then there were the tattoos.

Derek hadn’t ventured to ask about them, but sitting next to her, he could see that what he previously thought were swirls, were actually words in languages he couldn’t understand. They were inked close together in swirling designs that wrapped from her shoulders to her wrists. They made her arms look like a maze.

Emma rolled her eyes, almost seeing the cogs in his brain turning as he stared at her arms. “They’re protection incantations.” She explained.

He turned back to the road, putting on the indicator to turn on the next street. “From what?”

“Lots of things.” She shrugged. “Many cultures around the world believe in the existence of evil spirits and the supernatural. Many of the older generations have written down ways to ward off evil and I like to have as much protection as I can on me at all times.”

“Do all witches have tattoos?”

Emma scrunched her nose. “I hate the term ‘witch’. It reminds me of burning.”

“Then what would you like to be called?” He asked, slowly losing his patience.

“I don’t know? A mage? Conjurer?” Her eyes were slits. “Anything but witch.”

“Fine.” Derek said through gritted teeth. “Answer the question.”

She let out an indignant huff and set her jaw. “No.”

“No?”

“No.” She repeated. “Different tribes believe in different things. I happen to believe in the power of words. So I like to have them near me.”

“What about the Crow?”

“No. They don’t mark themselves.” Emma looked down at her hands. The mention of the Crow made her sense their presence in the shadows around her. Their breaths lingered behind her, tickling her neck and making the hairs on her neck spring up in fear. “They believe it’s a sin to change your body.”

“And you don’t.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Vox audita perit litera scripta manet.” She said.

Derek’s eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“It’s a latin proverb. It means that while a heard voice can be lost, the written word remains.” She explained quietly. “We don’t leave our voices, but our marks.”

He stopped at the stop sign and then turned into the next street. “Scott would like that.” Emma looked away, back to the view out of the window. They had just turned onto Stiles’ street and Derek looked down to see the house. He’d only been to the house twice before, neither of which had good memories. “You’ll like them.”

“I don’t want to meet them.” She quipped.

“Don’t you want to see the boy whose life you saved?”

Her head whipped around quickly. “I didn’t save him.” She said through gritted teeth. “If I’d saved him, I’d be gone.”

Derek didn’t understand. “But he’s better--”

“For now.” Emma said with finality, her hand raised to stop him from continuing.

He turned the car into the Stilinski driveway and killed the engine. “Listen, I don’t know who you are, or what your deal is, but if you did something to Stiles, I swear that you will have a lot more than a couple of witches to fear.”

Her face did not betray a single emotion, but rather remained blank and expressionless. Hey gray eyes were focused on the write wrap-around porch that surrounded the Stilink’s home. She had dreamed about a house like this one when she was younger. It was the kind of house that she wished she had grown up in.

Emma watched from the corner of her eye as Derek let out an exasperated sigh and got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He walked up the steps two at a time and went to knock on the door, but found that he couldn’t bring his hand down. He turned back to look at her, still sitting in the passenger seat of his car, holding the potted snapdragon tightly in her arms. His eyes were pleading her.

She tried to tear her eyes away but couldn’t. Instead she set her jaw and reached to the cold door handle and opened the car door. Her feet hit the concrete drive with a soft, resounding thud and Emma gently closed the car door behind her, trying not to drop her plant. Her feet didn’t move forward, but lingered by the closed car door.

A small smirk formed on Derek’s lips as he turned back to the door, tearing his eyes away from Emma. At least she’s out of the car, he thought to himself.

* * *

The sound of the knock on the door came suddenly. Without werewolf hearing, Stiles was often surprised at the doorbell being rung nowadays. Scott and Lydia had their own keys and Malia prefered the window to any other form of entryway.

Though he was laying on the couch, and therefore the closest to the door, Stiles made no effort to open the door for whoever was outside. Lydia had told him to lie down on the couch for a bit after he told her that his head had started to hurt again. She figured sleep might do him good, but he found that his mind couldn’t shut itself long enough to spare him some moments of respite. He had been pretending to sleep since he had left the kitchen. He was trying his best to avoid both Lydia and Malia, slightly afraid of what may happen with the three of them together under the same roof.

Light footsteps padded through the living room as Lydia left the kitchen to open the door. Stiles closed his eyes again and evened his breathing as he heard her steps get closer. He heard her turn the lock on the door and carefully open it.

“Hey Lydia.” He heard a voice that could only be Derek say.

“Derek.” Stiles could almost hear her purse her lips in disappointment. “I was hoping you were Scott.”

“Sorry.” He apologized, but didn’t sound very sorry at all. “Scott said he’s on his way. Just checking in on Kira.”

“Who’s that?” Lydia asked quietly.

“The reason I was hoping Scott would be here.”

Stiles took this moment to open his eyes and start sitting up on the couch. He threw the blanket that Lydia had brought down for him to the side. Lydia turned around at the sound of his feet settling on the creaking floorboards.

“Did we wake you?” Her eyebrows knit together in concern.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to focus them and get them accustomed to the bright light seeping in from the door. “No.” He told her, shaking his head to confirm. “The doorbell did. My brain just took a while to catch up.”

Stiles could see Lydia’s face grow more concerned. “Is your head okay? Are you still in pain?”

“No.” He lied, the back of his head was still throbbing. “I’m just tired.” He looked down at his hands. He had been wringing them unconsciously.

“You shouldn’t lie.” A soft voice spoke out from the doorway.

Stiles turned his gaze to the doorway to see where the voice was coming from, but only Derek and Lydia were anywhere in that vicinity. He watched as Derek stepped aside to reveal a girl behind him. He squinted in attempt to bring her into better focus. The girl took a few steps into the house and Stiles could see that she was holding a potted plant in her arms. She came closer and put it down on the coffee table.

There was a reason she wouldn’t focus. Everything was soft and round. The only thing sharp about her were the collar bones that poked through her thin shirt. She bent down in front of him, levelling their gaze. Her eyes gray eyes bore into his brown ones.

“Who says I’m lying?” He dared her, not bending down to her.

Her head cocked to the side like a confused child and a small, curious smile lit her face. “I have a feeling I’m going to like you, Stiles Stilinski.”

Stiles gulped, suddenly terrified.


End file.
